“It’s a secret room with a slide,” he says.
“What’s at the bottom?” I ask.
He arches one eyebrow. “You’ll have to find out.”
The challenge is clear. Do I trust Kon enough to slide into whatever is down there?
Yes. It’s not even a question.
I’m sitting on the edge of the red plastic before I complete that thought, because this man risked his life to get me out of the Volk ballet, he was considerate and generous when I made him take my virginity, and he’s continued to help me and be my friend when I know I’m far too young for him to be interested in, and have caused him all sorts of problems.
I push off and I lose my tummy as the slide drops away. It’s so fast I barely take in the curving slide, the high sides, and white walls. A happy shriek escapes me as I sweep down, my yoga pants protecting me and providing no friction. It’s a blur of colour and exhilaration. Child-like fun that I haven’t had for years. Then another corner, and it opens out. There’s a huge pile of cushions at the bottom of the slide, and I’m helpless to do anything but fall right into them with a giggle as I overbalance the haphazard stack.
Again, again, my body clamours as I get to my feet and look around. It’s a room that’s perhaps three or four times the size of the little hotel bedrooms I used to stay in. All painted white, for a second I don’t see what makes it anything but a normal, bare space.
Bookshelves.
There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all in white. There’s even a little set of steps on wheels to access the higher shelves.
My heart soars. It’s a secret library.
I love it. I love it so much. Almost as much as the man who created it.
“Oh my God,” I say under my breath. The realisation rocks me. I’m in love with this man. How can I not be? He’s everything I could want. Every time we meet, every time we touch, it’s as though he knows me.
Heseesme.
“Is that an injury ‘oh my god,’ or a pleased ‘oh my god’?” Kon asks, his voice muffled from above.
“It’s…” I run my hand over the smooth painted wood of the nearest shelf. “Come down and see for yourself.” I borrow his own words because I need him by my side.
He huffs. “Get out of the way then, I don’t want to squash you.”
And if I thought that using a slide was beneath serious, grumpy, deadly Kon Morosov, I was totally wrong.
There’s a swoosh, and he pops out of the slide right onto his feet as though he’s done it a million times.
“You’ve done that before!” And my voice skirts between delighted and accusing.
Kon adjusts his cuffs.
“No comment,” he says with a little smirk.
A giggle bubbles out of me as I envisage Kon repeatedly running up the stairs and then sliding down onto the cushions like a big kid.
“You enjoy it, don’t you?” I continue.
“I had to check it was safe,” he intones levelly, and with so much self-righteousness that I think anyone else might be fooled.
“That was a rhetorical question,” I reply with sass. “I know the answer is yes.”
“Mmm.” But the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “So, do you like the apartment?”
I’m about to enthuse an embarrassing amount, but my brain finally catches up. “Wait, why did you have to test the slide? Is this new?”
Kon nods reluctantly, casting his gaze up at the empty shelves as though the answer might be there. And perhaps it is.
“You said you lived on the floor up.”
